The punishment for his little act of defiance was not death—Cazador was far too cruel for something so merciful. No, his master had decided on something far more poetic. If Astarion wanted to leave, then so be it. He would be sold, stripped of whatever meager dignity remained, and handed off to someone who saw him as nothing more than a commodity. Cazador had laughed as he signed the deal, delighted by the irony of turning his rebellious pet into property.

The market was a wretched place, filled with the stench of unwashed bodies and hopelessness. Shackles had long since worn his wrists raw, iron biting into skin that never truly healed. Every jolt of the cart sent fresh aches through his body, his muscles stiff from days without rest. But worse than the exhaustion was the hunger—an insidious, gnawing thing that grew sharper with every heartbeat he heard, every pulse that teased him just out of reach. The scent of fresh blood was everywhere, yet he was too weak to fight for it, too caged to take what he needed.

The traders were preparing him now, checking the restraints, fastening chains, ensuring their merchandise looked presentable for his new owner. Somewhere beyond the bars of his cage, he could hear murmured conversation, the scratch of quills against parchment. Paperwork was being finalized, a price had been set. Soon, he would belong to someone else.